


eleven days

by whispered



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 19:47:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered/pseuds/whispered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They smile at each other and somewhere in the background where the sun is falling and airplanes are arriving and departing from Heathrow Airport, they know that this is what their lives are about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	eleven days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [selenachevalier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/selenachevalier/gifts).



> A few random days in a span of eleven days in a span of a lifetime where they realize that this is alright and this is what they want and they're just fine with that.
> 
> *
> 
> Thank you to Selena and Rebecca for always supporting my writing.

01.

John’s making tea again. Sherlock’s typing away, muttering to himself about anything and everything. It’s probably too cold to be considered late winter, but London’s had a harsh run in with a late snowstorm and John’s practically praying that nothing comes up today. He’s almost to the point where he would willingly lace Sherlock’s tea with a sedative – if he weren’t a doctor.

Sherlock takes his tea and John flips through the papers.

John finds little of interest and Sherlock’s tea goes cold twice before he drains the third cup and moves to sit by John, thigh by thigh. John just flips to the next page and ignores that his personal space has been deleted alongside Sherlock’s thoughts on olive oil, chihuahuas, and spicy mustard. Poor man already has enough stuffed up into that mind of his, least of all John to expect that he should cater to the idea of _personal space_.

“I’m bored,” Sherlock states and John merely hums. Sherlock tries to peek over the edge of the newspaper and nitpick but he realizes that John’s looking at the comics.

“You’re bored,” Sherlock remarks.

“Your deductions are improving by the day.”

The right corner of John’s lip turns upwards and he flips to the next page. Sherlock merely stares and glances from the paper to John, then back to the paper one more time before simply staring at John. “Food?”

“Only if you’re going to keep your bloody hands off my risotto this time,” John replies, a chuckle rolling out afterwards after he finds a funny bit in the papers.

Sherlock flicks his gaze upwards and glances out towards the open window. It’s snowing still. “I’ll call out.”

John hums one last time and replies, “You’re not so boring to me, Sherlock,” before focusing back in on his paper. It takes Sherlock exactly fourteen minutes to find his phone and another five to place the order because he requires at least eighteen minutes to understand what John just said and one additional to remember what he was doing in the first place.

 

03.

There is a case in Peru and Sherlock’s begging for freedom and John could use the sun. They book flights and John packs their bags – knowing well enough now after however many years that Sherlock’s shirts must be folded neatly, at the very top of the pile.

The flight is long and boring and John concentrates on the fact he should really not diagnose his friend with attention deficit disorder. John wills Sherlock to have two glasses of red halfway in the flight and Sherlock’s enough of a lightweight that he’s tipping over to the right after he finishes the second and John just orders another round. He’d rather have a sleepy and mumbling Sherlock than one who is telling John about all the men the pretty flight attendant has shagged. When Sherlock is presented with his third glass of red, he knocks it back and thirty minutes later his head is on John’s shoulder and the soldier realizes he has no idea what this case is about in the first place.

They’re just on a flight together going to Peru and here Sherlock is asleep on his shoulder and he really hopes they’ve brought sunscreen because Sherlock’s going to bake like a lobster.

While that could be a funny thing, John likes Sherlock too much to let himself laugh.

 

04.

The case is dull and boring but Peru is lovely and John can find the beauty in all of it. They’ve still got two nights in before their flight out and for whatever reason, Sherlock seems to be fine with that. They share a room and order breakfast and John uses the loo first.

John asks Sherlock to go out for a little, to get some air and to get London out of their systems before they have to go back. He half-expects Sherlock to say no, but instead, Sherlock says yes and they visit the city. Halfway through their touring, Sherlock takes them to a hotel in downtown Lima and turns to John and admits the following:

“I stayed here, a little over three years ago, when I was tracking down Moran. I could buy cocaine easily but Mycroft put an end to it each time that it started. The rooms smelled like bleach and the coffee was bland. The lights gave me headaches and it’s where I dyed my hair auburn in the sink.”

John stares at the traffic passing by. This is an area they rarely ever talk about because truthfully, it’s still hard to forgive Sherlock for just leaving him. Sherlock doesn’t like awkward conversations or ones that produce mass amounts of tears either, so he avoids the topic like the plague – until now.

John stands at Sherlock’s side and doesn’t say anything. Instead he grabs Sherlock’s wrist by his forefinger and thumb – circling it perfectly – and smiles at him, politely and aware and everything that is a solider and a doctor and John Watson. Sherlock remains perfectly calm and still, letting John, for once, invade his own personal space. They remain that way until the stoplight overhead turns green and John lets go.

They have dinner together and Sherlock has trouble keeping down the idea that John doesn’t find him boring and the knowledge that he doesn’t find John boring either.

 

06.

They fly back home. Once again, John packs their bags and Sherlock hails the taxi. They’ve been bumped to first class and this time they have champagne and whiskey. Sherlock isn’t one for drinking all too often but he’s enjoyed Peru and he’s enjoyed John and all of this just makes him warm and fuzzy inside. John is flicking him on the side every few seconds and they’re laughing and laughing and laughing. This time though, it’s John who falls asleep at Sherlock’s side. He doesn’t lean as heavily but they’re comfortable here and John rustles in his sleep, finding some sort of dream that Sherlock is more than a little curious about.

When they land, John’s clouded with sleep and Sherlock carries the bags from the terminal. John doesn’t mention it but he knows why Sherlock is doing it. This time he flags down the cab, slipping into the back and waiting for Sherlock to his side, seated just to the right. They smile at each other and somewhere in the background where the sun is falling and airplanes are arriving and departing from Heathrow Airport, they know that this is what their lives are about.

 

08.

“Dr. Watson, you’ve got someone waiting for you – a Sherlock something-or-other. Won’t leave Melissa up front alone until you,” she stops in her words when John raises his hand and well, he can’t help but smile. What once was a disaster to his day, knowing that Sherlock’s on the other side of the building just now, just to see him, well, that makes his day.

It’s less than a minute later when Sherlock’s in the room, sitting at the chair in front of John, just across the desk, with his arms crossed at the chest.

“What’s wrong now, Sherlock?”

“You haven’t answered your texts.”

“I’m not at lunch for half an hour more you imbecile. You know my schedule.”

Sherlock just stares. John gives in and reaches in his desk, pulling out his mobile phone where he is presented with the hard fact that he has twelve new messages, all from a _SH_. He merely glances at Sherlock, who, in exchange, shrugs his shoulders and John begins to read through them one by one.

_John. SH_

_Bored. SH_

_John. SH_

_This is absurd. SH_

_Mycroft texts faster than this. And he’s tragically slow. SH_

_Experimenting on scorpions now. SH_

_I blame you and boredom. I thought I deleted scorpions. SH_

_They’re not as fun as murders. Or bees. SH_

_John. SH_

_John. SH_

_Oh for the love of – may need medical assistance. SH_

_JOHN. SH_

John glances upwards and Sherlock’s already pulled up his arm sleeve, presenting, what looks to be, a nasty bite with a smeared bit of blood up and down his right forearm. John sets the mobile phone on the desk and rounds about, patting the edge of the medical table to the far left. Sherlock follows through and takes his place on the edge of it, withdrawing at the sound of the plastic paper rustling against his bottom and legs.

John checks the wound, pats it dry with some hydrogen peroxide and covers it in medical wrapping. He knows Sherlock doesn’t need a tetanus shot – he had one just four weeks ago. Instead, he stands there, right in front of Sherlock and kisses his forehead affectionately. “Next time you want to visit, don’t put yourself in harms’ way. I do have a direct line.”

Sherlock swallows and stares, eyes focused on John’s own. “I prefer to text.”

It’s automatic and the least-romantic thing Sherlock could come up with at the moment.

John only shakes his head and kisses Sherlock’s forehead again, patting his wounded area gently with his right open palm. “Go home. I’ll be off around six and we can order out.”

“Want Angelo’s.”

“Alright then.”

 

10.

Sherlock’s sitting on the floor, legs crossed with a stack of books piled to his right. John’s set in his own chair with a cup of tea rested on his right kneecap. The fire is warm and winter season is finally dying down. The cold air in London will soon turn warm enough where John can go out without a jacket and maybe they can part one of the windows of the flat to let some fresh air in. John likes that idea.

Sherlock’s highlighting through several sections of an open book when he turns his face up, catching John’s own gaze. He feels young here, youthful and alive, despite not being on a case or running around London and he thinks he’s okay with that. He thinks he is more than okay with all of this.

“We’re different.”

John blinks and closes his novel, setting it on the armrest to the right. He doesn’t press the topic and instead allows Sherlock to pick and choose his own words.

“Why are things different?”

This is where John could put up a clueless act, but he knows exactly what he’s doing and he knows precisely what’s been going on. It’s been going on for longer than it has, but the evidence had only grown more apparent as the time continued to past – he knew it would only be a matter of time before Sherlock caught on to all of it. Instead of playing lost, he only smiles and offers that affectionate grin that makes Sherlock’s stomach do weird things.

“I think I’m alright with this Sherlock. I’m not getting any younger and I don’t see myself settling anywhere else. I enjoy my time with you. It’s the life I hadn’t always thought I’d have, but it’s the one I want. And I think you’re alright with it too.”

“I’m not good at dating, John.”

“I think we’re a little beyond that, don’t you think?”

Sherlock stares. “How long?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Ages I suppose.”

There are still open books around Sherlock, but he’s focused on the doctor seated just across from him. He tries to mentally pinpoint when this all started but he finds himself lost in so many memories that he can’t find his way back. “But that would mean you’ve been cheating on me.”

John blinks and laughs so hard that the tea on his kneecap almost falls over. Of course bloody Sherlock Holmes would think on that spectrum.

“Yes,” John says, in between laughter, “I would suppose so.”

It doesn’t necessarily answer all of his questions, but Sherlock likes how, just an hour later, John heads upstairs but pauses to ruffle his hair and bid him goodnight. He shouldn’t like things like this but then again he’s never had them before so he has no right to judge. Until now at least.

 

11.

John’s making tea again. Sherlock’s typing away, paragraph after paragraph. It’s getting warmer by the day and John parts the window’s curtain to let in some light. He places a cup of tea and a plate of toast at Sherlock’s side. Sherlock makes no comment, but instead uses his free left hand to grip at John’s shirt. John stops and looks down at Sherlock, who’s set at the desk. The sunlight radiates nicely behind Sherlock, and one day John would like to comment on it.

Sherlock looks innocent here, maybe a little lost. John’s not the best at giving instructions or directions, but he’s the best with Sherlock and this will have to do. He bends down at the waist and kisses Sherlock on the lips.

It is their first kiss and it’s enough for the both of them to know that this is alright and they want this and this – this is what everything is for.

When John pulls away from the single kiss, Sherlock’s lips are parted and his eyes are closed. John doesn’t think he’s taken Sherlock’s first kiss, but he hopes that it is one of his favorites.

Maybe twelve minutes later, Sherlock goes to his room and finds his yearly planner in his bedside drawer. He flips it open to the day’s date and jots down the following in black ink: _Day one_.

He then flips to a month later, exactly, and writes, in the same black ink: _One month_.

Lastly, he turns several more pages, finding the same exact month and day, a year later, and pens down: _One year. Angelo’s?_

John checks on Sherlock, sometime later, hair wet from a shower and wrapped in his signature bathrobe. He stands at the consulting detective’s bedroom’s entryway and smiles at the opposite who is rested on his back, against the green shades of his bedding.

“John,” Sherlock says in greeting.

“Greg called. Man found dead by the Thames. Says it could be interesting,” John replies, leaning heavily on the doorframe.

Sherlock sits up, facing the far end of his bedroom where John cannot see his facial expression. He’s casting a heavy grin, lips turned up on both side and there are dozens of little crinkles at the corner of his eyes. There’s a new layer of happiness settling right over his stomach, just now, and he knows exactly what it is named. He turns his shoulder just slightly, so John can see him, and there he is, the thing he will never delete and the feeling he’ll never escape:

_John_.


End file.
